The Return of the King
by Doc M
Summary: Someone's been tampering with the KoH script, killing characters who survived historically. Is a 12C feud being replayed as a game of literary revenge? Can you commit regicide by script? What about death by falling dwarf?
1. Murder He Didn't Write

Having read an earlier draft of the full _KoH_ script (thanks, eBay!) including the deleted scenes, I was struck by 2 cases of character-death that were excised from the theatrical edit: Guy de Lusignan and Humphrey de Toron (who never even made it into the theatrical cut as a character!). These were entirely a-historical (both the victims survived into the 1190s in real life), and violent. Why were they scripted in the first place?

Well, the identity of the victims set me thinking as to _which_ 12C character would have _wanted_ this to happen and regret that it didn't in reality? Who could _possibly_ want revenge in this way?

This is a fantasy-comedy, and none of the present-day characters is meant to be a portrait of a real person.

**THE RETURN OF THE KING**

**1: Murder He _Didn't_ Write…**

**N Africa, 21C:**

At the hotel, cool at last under air-conditioning, the Famous Director and the Scriptwriter were viewing the rushes from the past couple of days' shooting: a brutal stabbing, and a climactic, bloody swordfight in which the villain ended up in pieces.

"Great scenes! Really great!" the director enthused. "Great action, and the audience gets the dramatic and emotional pay-off!"

The scriptwriter squirmed.

"You're still not happy with them?"

"But it didn't really happen like that…"

The director nodded. "I know, I know. This is hard for you - you're still so close to the history. But you acknowledged that we had to make some compromises, sacrifice some accuracy, to make it accessible, to keep the box-office happy. I need the producers on-side to allow us to keep making films."

"Sure." The younger man sounded despondent.

"I _know_ you wanted the King to be the main hero, but… It's a basic fact: leprosy isn't the most box-office friendly of disabilities. It's… the _æsthetics_. Wheelchairs, blindness, learning disabilities - fine. But _leprosy_..."

The scriptwriter was reminded of the story about the bowdlerised filming of _The Children's Hour_ as _These Three_ in the 1930s; of the big-shot producer who, when told that there was a problem with the heroines being lesbians, suggested, "Well, let's make them Albanians!" At least the director hasn't insisted that the King's illness be written out.

He chuckled bitterly: "It's _Sweet Liberty_, right? 'Defy authority, destroy property, take people's clothes off'. Not reality. Not history. Not even art."

"Well, maybe not history. But I won't give up on _art_ yet," smiled the director. He had been in the business for much longer, and knew too well the battles that had to be fought to bring anything of quality to the screen. If only a small percentage of his and the writer's original vision ended up on screen, it was still a victory against the bean-counters…

"But I'm still not happy with these incidents," the writer insisted. "Guy killing Humphrey; Balian killing Guy. It just didn't happen. And it destroys any chance of a sequel."

"But the audience needs what you Americans call 'closure'. And you wrote it, didn't you?"

The writer stirred his coffee, silent for a moment. "As a matter of fact, _no_, I _didn't_…"

The director raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean? You didn't tell me you'd brought in a co-writer."

"No, I haven't… But I didn't… They… _wrote themselves_."

"Wrote themselves? How?"

He was shaking now, and it was not the amount of coffee he had been drinking all day. "They just appeared. In my computer. Suddenly, they were in the document. I tried to delete them, but that just crashed the document. I couldn't get rid of them."

"You're serious?"

"It was as if someone had pasted them into the script."

"Could anyone have hacked in, past your passwords?"

"No."

"How's your virus-protection?"

"Viruses don't compose dialogue and directions."

"And it was just those scenes?"

The writer nodded. "Yes. I meant Humphrey to swear allegiance to Guy and Sibylla, as he did in reality, to show what a wimp he is. But suddenly - Guy was sticking a knife into him, and Isabella just carried on sewing, as if nothing had happened. She wouldn't - hell, she didn't even want to be divorced from him, although he was as camp as a field of Boy Scouts! And as for Balian fighting and killing Guy at _Golgotha_ - I mean, the _symbolism_… No…!"

"Are you sure our 'Guy' didn't simply want a few more action scenes?"

The writer shook his head. "I've spoken to the actor. But we hadn't even done the casting when this started to happen. I _did_ get an odd e-mail, though, just beforehand."

"How odd?"

"Blank. Looked like Spam - the sender address was gibberish. But it had the title, 'The Return of the King'."

The director scratched his beard, then laughed. "If it's one of Pete's practical jokes -!"

"I don't like it, though. It's creepy. I know I've killed enough characters already, but these are deaths I _didn't_ plan. We should cut those scenes. Something's… not right."

"Well, we'll see how it looks when we've edited it all together," the director replied reassuringly. But he too was unnerved. It was hardly comparable with murdering anyone in real-life, but who would invest time and effort in killing characters in a film-script? Granted, writers did it every day, but… Why? So, they'd built up the inept and unlucky Guy into a major villain: a major duel, as per _Gladiator_, made sense for his exit. But _Humphrey de Toron_? A minor character, of little importance: Reynald's stepson, Isabella's husband, young, effeminate… Why would anyone want _him_ stabbed to death? He had no reason to doubt the scriptwriter's word... They definitely had a mystery on their hands…

_**To be continued**: A mysterious extra_


	2. The Extra & the Wardrobe Assistant

**2: The Extra & the Wardrobe Assistant**

One of the extra 'Barons', still wearing a gold-embroidered tunic of dark green damask, leaned against the fountain in the hotel courtyard. He had forgotten how hot this kind of climate could be, that the sand and dust made him cough. And the gratuitous historical inaccuracies did nothing to make him feel better.

Still, he wouldn't have missed it for the world. Even as mere make-believe, mummery, it cheered him to see things of which he had dreamed made real. People he had wished he had met, but never did in life; those he had met - and wished he had not. All woven into a strange and violent fancy such as a romancer might have made after reading William of Tyre's _Historia_, drinking copious amounts of Malvasia, _and_ smoking hashish…

"You look pale. Are you all right?"

It was one of the costume department staff, Rosa. She had joined the crew from Barcelona when they were filming the 'French' scenes in the Pyrenées. Medium-height, medium-build, with dark curls, mid-forties: hardly the sort to turn heads, but she had always seemed friendly enough - probably because he had his own kit (court costume and mail) and so never pestered her or lost anything as so many of the other extras did.

"Yes, well enough." He forced a smile.

She laughed. "So you're Catalan, too?"

"No, actually."

"- Rossillon, then? Somewhere in the Pays d'Oc? Your Catalan's pretty good! A country dialect?"

He did not answer directly. "I've travelled a great deal over the years. Sometimes you forget where you belong. And I'm always pale."

"So I've noticed."

"On the rushes?"

"I'm not illustrious enough to have seen much of those. But no, the bit I did see, you weren't in: the coronation, back in Spain."

"I can assure you I _was_ there - wearing this. Quite conspicuously placed, too, I think."

"The others must have been blocking you, then. I think I'd have noticed you - your costume, I mean," she added hastily. "Definitely not one of ours. You must be a serious re-enactor!"

"Oh, I've had this for years!"

"It's wearing well," she answered, and could not help thinking the same was true of its contents. He was about her own age - not much past average height, but strikingly handsome: lean and strong, with blond hair that reached to his broad shoulders, and a short, trimmed beard. He reminded her a little of Boromir in _The Lord of the Rings_ films. But despite working in this climate, he was unusually pallid. Deathly. Bad digestion, she thought - not unusual on African locations.

"But you didn't see me at the coronation?"

Rosa shook her head.

He sighed, and pushed back his long hair. "I must admit, it's something I always dreamed of seeing: the coronation of a King of Jerusalem. And at the Holy Sepulchre!"

"I think we did quite well for ourselves in Avila!"

The man laughed. "Indeed! Well, I never made it to Jerusalem myself, anyway!"

"They say the tombs of the Kings are still there."

"_Most_ of them."

"Yes - that's right! I read that some had been destroyed in 19C."

"And then there are the Kings who died _after_ the city fell."

"Do they still count as Kings of Jerusalem?"

"_Some_ do!" he answered indignantly. "_Some_ might have won it back, but for - Oh, forgive me!"

She shrugged. "I know what you history enthusiasts are like! There are enough of you on this film! And the scriptwriter was in a state this morning!"

"Really? What about?"

"The death-scenes of Humphrey and Guy. He really doesn't like them. I hear along the grapevine that he and the director had an argument about them. An 'inaccuracy too far' he says!"

"I don't know about that!" said the man. "Quite a few people's lives would have been happier if that _had_ happened - to _both_ of them! Humphrey _and_ Guy… dead in '87." He smiled almost gleefully. "And it's not as if there aren't enough inaccuracies already! Balian a stripling of a blacksmith? And my nephew-" He paused, and rephrased: "My nephew's a mere child, and… well, even _he_ would know that only _one_ King was a leper! And as for Richard_ Oc-e-Non_ - that murdering whoreson braggart-!" He coughed violently.

"You're _not_ all right, are you?"

"It's nothing. An old injury. It's all the sand in the air, irritating..."

"Lungs?"

He nodded. "But I'm fine now. Completely well."

He was smiling, but she was afraid. "You should go back to your room. Do you want me to call the nurse?"

"I _said_, I'm fine."

And he crossed the courtyard and went back inside.

He was too proud, Rosa thought, watching him, and cursed herself for not asking his name after all these weeks.

_**To be continued**: The plot thickens…_


	3. Mint Tea & Sympathy

**3: Mint Tea & Sympathy**

Several days later, the writer and the director were drinking mint tea from gilded glasses outside a tea-house near the hotel. It was late afternoon, when the day's heat began to give way to the desert evening's coolness. Still they were puzzling over the mysterious script-insertions.

"You know," said the director, "most computer hackers are spotty adolescent boys who don't get out of their rooms often enough."

"But it can't be an external hack," the writer answered. "And who out there really cares about all this? It's the 12C, for God's sake!"

"In the present international climate, _quite a few_ people, I fear. It _could_ be political."

"But why _those_ two characters? - Well, with Guy - yes, he's a king, so perhaps… But Humphrey?"

"But what did you say the chroniclers said of him? _Better suited to be a girl_?"

"That's taking gay-bashing to new lows!"

"Is there anything else that someone might have taken exception to?"

The writer sighed deeply. "I don't know… I feel guilty, though - at some of the things I have done. The child, Baldwin V…"

"Dramatically, it's far more effective than him just getting measles or something, isn't it?"

"Yes, but leprosy's not very contagious! It gives a wrong impression - Hey, you don't think there are some _militant lepers_ out there somewhere, who heard about this, and decided -?"

The director scratched his head. "I wonder if we should tackle this as if it were a _real_ murder case.."

"In what respect?"

"If we can crack the motive. Who has something to gain by it - even in _screentime_? Or who dislikes the characters or actors involved. Though it could still be random - someone doing it just to show he can."

The writer sighed. "It's got so that I'm scared every time I switch on my laptop, in case someone else has been killed off! Suppose it's Balian next - or Sibylla? We'd have no movie!"

"Whoever is behind this is playing a _game_. If we think it through, crack the strategy behind it, we might even get ahead. Remember what you wrote for the King, about life as a chess game? Or look at _them_, over there!" The director gestured over to another table, where a couple - the woman in modern casual clothes, the man attired as a courtier - sat engrossed in a game of chess at their café table.

"Isn't that Rosa Figueiras from wardrobe?"

"Yes - I think she's taken a shine to one of the 'lords of Outremer'!"

"I guess that kind of thing happens on most movies."

The director nodded sagely. "At least those two look old enough to know what they're doing." Then the man turned his head, and the director saw his profile clearly. "Oh God… It's _him_!"

"Who?"

"Stroppy bloody re-enactor… Signor _Alerami_. He turned up with the set people from Cinecittà. _Italian_. When we were filming the siege, he tried to direct the whole damn scene himself!"

"And you didn't sack him?"

"No. He's too good - brilliant with a sword, looks the part. You'd think he'd worn mail from boyhood."

"I don't recall seeing him in the rushes."

"That's funny," said the director, "neither do I. But we tried to get him in shot in several scenes, I could have sworn it."

He saw Rosa lean forward, as if to place her hand over the man's upon the table, but he drew back from her. He strained to hear what they were saying, but they were speaking quietly in Catalan, or something that sounded like it...

_**To be continued**: Rosa learns a little more about her knight…_


	4. The Game of Kings

**4: The Game of Kings**

It had been years since Rosa had played chess, but over the past few days she had started to improve. She had used a game at the café to break the ice with her 'Baron' the day after that encounter in the hotel courtyard. She had already spoken to the set-builders from Rome, who told her that he was a compatriot of theirs.

"Rosa Figueras Berenguer," she had introduced herself.

"Corrado Alerami." And he had bowed, as if still in character.

"You don't sound Italian."

"I'm from the north - Piemont: some of us still speak the language of the trobadors - like you!" And his blue eyes twinkled. "But I have French, too, and German, and Latin and Greek."

"Impressive! Which university?"

"Nothing so formal. I've German and French relatives, and when I was young, I lived with an uncle in Bavaria. Then I travelled around the Mediterranean for several years."

She pointed to herself. "Art school, Barcelona: fashion design and textiles. I had a lot of fun as a student: it was just a few years after we got our freedom back, and… We all went a little wild! Crazy, really… So crazy I ended up with a _husband_!"

"You make it sound as if it were a misfortune."

She nodded. "It was. We split up twelve years ago. Not pleasant. And you?"

He held up three fingers.

She whistled. "But currently?"

"No… Again, as you say, it was _not_ pleasant. I wasn't what she wanted. What she _needed_, perhaps - but not _wanted_." He flashed a smile. Good-looking as he was, he needed a dentist: mediæval authenticity could go too far.

"I'm sorry," she replied. (But she was not.)

He shrugged. "My first wife died; my second was a mistake - I realised after a few months. I don't think she missed me. And the third… Too young."

"Children?"

"One daughter. I don't see her. What about you?"

"Never had the time or patience. It takes me all my time to keep my plants alive! My husband wanted them, so… It was one reason why he left. In fact, by then, his girlfriend was already expecting!" It was too long ago to feel aggrieved. "So, did you get into re-enacting as an escape?"

"Not so much of an escape: it _is_ my life. And since I was ill, I've had no choice."

"You can't work?"

"This _is_ my work. My life, as I said! I have money, so…"

_Do_ you? she thought. She wondered if it had been from something shady. He had a military bearing: a soldier of fortune? But at times he seemed too wrapped up in mediæval history. An eccentric gentleman-scholar, perhaps?

Now, as they played their game on the table outside the café, she chatted blithely: "At home I design for a small theatre company - and a couple of drag acts, for fun. What I do here is less creative, but the pay's not bad. And it's travel! How are you enjoying it?"

He grimaced. "The writer and director need beating about the ears with a leather-bound chronicle! Balian was past fifty, married to Queen Maria! And that _boy_ - he couldn't command an army in a siege! Can you imagine a desperate people looking to him, respecting him, when the whole Saracen army is at their walls? He's still wet behind the ears!" He coughed a little.

"But wasn't the _King_ just a boy? _And_ dying?"

"The Leper was exceptional! - My God, I wish I'd known him in life! Half-rotted, but a better man than that dolt Lusignan! But this - this pseudo-Balian! When they were filming his defence of Jerusalem - I tried to tell them! Quite absurd! Posing on the ramparts where he could be hit by the first volley, and making milk-and-water speeches!"

Her Bishop captured his Knight. "But he looks pretty, I suppose."

"So did Humphrey de Toron, but he failed to defend his wife's claim or kingdom! And the child - his father was Guilhem, not Guy! And everyone sounds so damn _heretical_. Which is all very well these days, but then?" And he drew a finger expressively across his throat.

"That's showbusiness! It must make life hard for people like you - knowing the history."

"People like _me_?" He smiled. "We are not so many, I think! It's not just about reading the right books, or looking for webpages! Practical experience!"

"Eh?"

"Sieges. Battles. I've been both besieged and a besieger."

"I wondered if you might be military. Where? Balkans?"

"Lebanon."

"UN?"

"International, yes: French, Italian, Greeks…"

He had not answered directly, she thought: Foreign Legion? Something to hide? "Check."

"This is beginner's luck!"

She smiled slyly. "Mate." She moved her hand towards his on the table, but he slid his away from her. (It was at this point that the writer and the director turned their attention to them.) Her attraction to him was strongly physical, she knew, but at forty-five, with one marriage and several relationships behind her, she had outgrown romantic illusions.

"_Don't_."

"What's wrong?"

"You've just killed my King."

"That's the point of the game! I'm picking it up again - you're good practice!"

"Kings should be mourned properly," he said with a mock-serious expression.

"You're a bad loser!" she said teasingly.

"No, don't touch me. I mean it."

She looked at him quizzically, and fidgeted with the chessmen. "Did I make the move too quickly?" she asked, trying to sound as if she meant the game.

"You're certainly fast."

"Well, we're not children."

He gave a thin-lipped smile and raised his hand to stroke his beard. She noticed the palm was scarred by pale, ragged lines, the sort that are made by grasping a blade defensively. If it still hurts, she thought, that might explain… "That's true. But you don't really know me," he said.

"You could be dangerous?"

"I _am_. _Very_." He paused, then added with a laugh: "But only to my enemies!"

_**To be continued**: Clues to the character-deaths…_


	5. CSI: Outremer

**5: CSI: Outremer**

The director's hotel suite now bore a passing resemblance to an incident room. On a cork pinboard, he had affixed photographs of the two 'victims', Guy de Lusignan and Humphrey de Toron; scribbled notes about the circumstances of their deaths; sketches from the storyboard. He even had a flip-chart on an easel. The writer had to admit that he was impressed.

"Now," said the director, who had seen far too many detective series on TV, "we've got Guy and Humphrey. Dead. Humphrey stabbed while swearing allegiance to Guy. Guy carved up in a swordfight with Balian. Who are their enemies? Who benefits?"

The writer sighed. "I guess we should start with Guy… He's the more straightforward case. Dramatically his death makes sense, even if it doesn't historically."

"Yup, good point! _I_'d have wanted him dead even if you hadn't!"

The writer looked at him…

"Look, it wasn't me! Honest!" the director replied defensively.

"OK, I believe you. The other thing with Guy is - historically as well as cinematically - hardly _anyone_ likes him."

"Hardly anyone?"

"- Apart from his wife."

"But even _she_ doesn't in your script!"

"That wasn't _my_ idea! - But the plain fact is, when the barons had to elect a King of Jerusalem in 1192, he didn't get a _single_ vote!"

"Has he ever sung for Norway in Eurovision?" the director asked.

"Seriously. _Not one vote_."

"So if it came to listing his enemies…"

"We'd run out of paper!"

"Hm. What about Humphrey? He's pretty inoffensive. Pretty _and_ inoffensive."

"Humphrey's an odd choice of victim. Not warlike, but a good linguist - a translator of Arabic. Stepson of Reynald. Regarded as effeminate and girlish. But _he_ had enemies, too. Isabella's supporters - her mother Queen Maria, her stepfather Balian - wanted him to back her claim to the throne after Baldwin V died, but he chickened out and swore allegiance to Guy. After Hattin especially, people found that hard to forgive."

"And so he's stabbed to death while swearing his loyalty to Guy and Sibylla… Poetic justice? - But what about Isabella's lack of reaction? That struck me as… chilling."

The writer gave a deep sigh. "That's what's really strange. Isabella _was_ attached to Humphrey. She was eleven, he seventeen, when they married at Kerak. He was like a brother to her, especially since her in-laws kept her parted from her mother and stepfather afterwards. Even for the good of the kingdom, she didn't want to divorce him, but her mother forced her into it. Mind, when her second husband was murdered, she remarried only a week later."

"_What_? Her _second_ husband was murdered? How?"

"_Stabbed_."

The director scrawled in marker-pen on the flip-chart. "So… The _first_ husband gets the death of the _second_, am I right?"

"Yup. Then her _third_ husband fell out of the window, and her _fourth_ husband died of a fish-overdose."

The director rolled his eyes. "Was she some kind of ultra-inventive serial killer?"

"No. The third was sheer Darwin Award: a dwarf was involved. And the fish was just off."

"Bizarre …" He paced the room back and forth. "But is there any link that you can think of?"

"They were all Isabella's husbands."

"No, I mean _between Humphrey and Guy_. Besides being brothers-in-law."

"The swearing allegiance business… It's interesting that our phantom script-doctor kills off Humphrey _then_. It's as if it's a _punishment_… Her _stepfather_ wasn't happy about it at all, and _he_ later opposed Guy."

"And he is - I keep forgetting who's who in this damn thing!"

The scriptwriter opened his briefcase and unfurled a family tree of the royal line of Jerusalem photocopied on to an A2 sheet of paper. He laid it on the coffee table, using the brass coffee pot and a paperweight to keep it flat. "I thought you might need this! - As I said, Isabella's stepfather is Balian of Ibelin. The _real_ Balian."

"And do you think…?"

"Someone might be upset over what we've done to him in the script? If _I_ were a descendant, I sure as hell would be! Priest-killing, adultery…"

"Vacuousness," added the director. "Oops! I didn't say that! - So, let me get this straight: _someone_ acting on behalf of _Balian_ might have a motive. Killing Guy, giving Humphrey his successor's death… Was _that_ the fellow Isabella had to get divorced for, then?"

"Yes," the writer replied. He was in his element now, enthusing about his beloved Outremer. He pointed to another name on the chart: "Conrad of Montferrat. He needed to marry Isabella, to get a crack at the kingship, against Guy, after Sibylla died in Acre. But there were questions about the marriage's legality - whether he had previous wives living, and the fact his brother had been Sibylla's first husband."

"You're losing me again! Where are we on the chart?"

"Here!' He pointed with a pen. "William of Montferrat married Sibylla, and was the father of Baldwin V. Conrad was one of his younger brothers, and he married Isabella, Sibylla's half-sister."

"So, besides wanting Humphrey out of the way, he's _another_ of Guy's enemies?"

"A _major_ one! He sailed into Tyre 10 days after Guy's defeat at Hattin. The city was preparing to surrender to Saladin. He immediately took command, threw the Saracen banners into the ditch, and refused to surrender even when Saladin threatened to kill his father! He held Tyre through two sieges, and sent out appeals to the West for help: without him, the whole kingdom would have fallen. Not surprisingly, he got all the votes instead of Guy!"

"Pity you didn't tell me this sooner! Sounds sequel-ish!"

"It's too depressing! He was murdered a few days after the vote, before he could be crowned. Isabella re-married a week later. She was carrying Conrad's child, so it was quite scandalous."

"Any idea who did it?"

"Yes - Assassins."

"I know _that_! But I'm asking _who_."

"I said, _Assassins_ - with a capital 'A'. _Nizari_. An Ismaili sect. _Hashishiyun_."

"Sounds like a bunch of pot-heads!"

"That was the rumour, but it seems they were sober enough when they made their hits: Raymond of Tripoli's - Tiberias's - father had been one of their previous victims. But who put them up to it… That's an open question: perhaps Saladin, perhaps King Richard."

"_Richard_?"

"I forgot to say, _he_ was the only person left who wanted Guy to stay King - basically because the Lusignans were troublemakers in Poitou, so he was less of a nuisance if he stayed in Outremer. But he didn't have a vote."

"Interesting…"

The flow-chart was now covered in words such as:

ISABELLA  
BALIAN  
CONRAD  
POT-HEADS  
RICHARD

The director sighed wearily. "This is getting extremely confusing… Where _is_ Montferrat, anyway?"

"Europe?" suggested the writer.

_**To be continued**: A romantic rendezvous_


	6. Computers & Kings

**6: Computers and Kings**

_Qe.l seu bel cors, baisan, rizen, descobra,  
E qe.l remir contra.l lum de la lampa._

_(And that, kissing and smiling, I uncover (my beloved's) fair body,  
And gaze upon it by the lamp-light.)_

Arnaut Daniel,**_ Doutz brais e critz_**

Corrado Alerami, in chainmail and surcoat, was sitting on a mud-brick staircase in the old casbah that served as the Kerak and Jerusalem sets. Rosa spotted him from a distance: not relaxed as most of the other extras were between shoots; more like a mountain lion, appearing to be at ease, but ready to spring in an instant.

"How's the surcoat bearing up?"

He glanced up from the well-thumbed paperback he was reading. "Fine."

"If you need any repairs…"

He smiled wryly. "I daresay _I_ do - but not my surcoat! I'm probably getting too old for this."

"I wouldn't say so."

"My sword-arm feels the strain sometimes."

"Have you tried acupuncture?"

His eyes glinted. "That depends on your definition."

"Massage, then?"

"- Is that an _offer_?"

"It _might_ be. - What's the book?" It was in French, and had an illustration of a knight on the cover.

"A translation of _Walter Scott_," he said scornfully. "More Crusades fiction!"

"Ah! _The Talisman_! Is it any good?"

He chuckled. "It's bullshit! Even worse than our script! God knows what gets into some writers when they tackle this era! This _idiot_ couldn't even get people's names right!"

"Right!" shouted the director through a megaphone. "If you can all get in place! Balian, you're trying to rally the citizens - you've got to show the Patriarch who's in charge here…!"

"Oh f…" he muttered. "And we're meant to believe that?"

Rosa shook her head, despairing. He was right about the credibility of the casting…

More instructions were called out: "Señora Figueiras, can you report back to wardrobe?"

"Sorry - I must dash!"

"Can I see you later?"

She nodded. "Yes, back at the hotel. I'll call round!"

He hid the book behind an earthenware jug, and stood up, stretching. His hair gleamed golden in the sun, but despite filming in the open, his face still had that drained pallor... As she hurried away, she heard him humming a jaunty tune, _Domna, pos vos ai chauzida_. Someone must have mumbled something to him about it, because she caught his quick retort, "At least it's in-period!"

The shoot went on until early evening, when they were bussed back to the hotel. It was almost ten in the evening when she knocked on the door of his room.

"Who is it?"

"Me. Rosa."

She heard him approach the door; then it sounded as if he were dragging a chair away. Finally, the latch turned.

He was in civilian costume (she could not recall ever seeing him in modern dress) - a simple belted tunic - but wearing a sword.

"Come in," he said drily. "_Lasciate ogni speranza.._!"

She laughed. "You look as if you're expecting trouble! Did you have the chair up against the door?"

"One can never be too careful. After what happened in Lebanon…"

"Do you have a nose for trouble, then?"

"No, but trouble sometimes has a nose for _me_. Luckily, I'm usually _very_ good at dealing with it - and turning it to my advantage." He smiled wickedly, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

After the warmth of the corridor, his room was cool, almost chilly: the air-conditioning must be on full, she thought. The only light came from the table lamp and the screen of a laptop (the wallpaper a manuscript illustration of knights in battle) on the bedside table.

"I wondered if you fancied coming down to the bar for a drink, maybe something to eat? I haven't had dinner yet…"

"Is that a hint?"

"Probably."

"Hm. Late dinners are sometimes a bad idea, I find... I have work to do, anyway, before I turn in."

"Oh, I'm sorry for disturbing you! Is it for the film?"

"Not exactly. I'm playing about on the computer, trying to e-mail my family… One of my nephews is very interested in what we're doing here, but…"

"Difficulties?"

He sighed. "Well, yes, to be honest! Spam-filters and such. It's embarrassing to admit, but do _you_ find children know more about working with these damn things than we do?"

She laughed, and nodded. "Yes! My nieces and nephews certainly do! But I suppose they've grown up with them! I'm not bad at it, but they can run rings around me! How old's your nephew?"

"Under ten - and writes his own programmes! My brother-in-law's good, too, but he uses speech-recognition software."

"So what are you trying to do?"

"It's hard to explain. A kind of interactive fiction. If you like, I can show you! We're having a great deal of fun with it."

She giggled. "I didn't come here to play games."

"I know."

"Not _on computer_, anyway."

He flinched. "Not possible."

"What do you mean? I thought - everything…" She recalled Sibylla's lines from the script, and impersonated her voice playfully: "I'm not here because I'm bored, or wicked…"

"I _know_. And believe me, I _like_ you. Under other circumstances - in another time or place…"

"But why not here? Or now? They're in and out of each others' rooms all along the corridor! It happens on film-shoots…"

He activated the screen-saver (more knights!), aware that she was leaning over him. "Don't touch me, Rosa, please."

"Is it a phobia?"

"It's my health."

"Come on! I don't think there's that much wrong with you! I saw you running around with a sword most of today, without coughing!" His evasiveness was beginning to irritate her. They'd been flirting with each other for weeks: she did not appreciate being led on and then - this. "What is it? An STD? - Or you still have a _wife_?"

"_No_, to the first, and to the second, also _no_! She married another man when carrying my child! Is that answer enough for you?" he snapped.

"I'm… so sorry."

He gave a slight cough, and stared sullenly at the screen of the laptop. He tapped at the keyboard, and cursed under his breath.

"But still… Corrado…?"

"That's what's on my _Italian_ paperwork; _our_ language comes more easily."

"_Conrad_, then…?"

"About the accident I was in, years ago, in Lebanon."

"What about it?"

"It was no accident."

"I _had_ figured that out! So what?"

"Rosa," he sighed wearily, "If you get too close… I don't want you to be _afraid_ of me."

"_Afraid_?" she laughed. "Of what - a few scars? I'm hardly some shrinking-violet teenager!" And half-playful, half in frustration, she sauntered over towards the bed, and, thinking to catch him by surprise, leaned down and kissed him on the mouth.

He was cold. Cold as her grandmother in her coffin, when she was a girl, and had been forced by her mother to kiss her lips... She staggered back, gasping.

"Cold as a corpse!"

"What did you expect?"

She sank down on to the chair. "I-I don't understand…"

He unlaced his tunic and pulled it down from his right shoulder and side (his body was as fine and strong and fair as she had hoped). "Look, Rosa," he said. "How _can_ I be alive?"

The scar was faded, silvery, like the cuts on his hand, but still visible enough: a gash on his breast, as if from a deflected blow - tearing through the nipple and running off towards the side. He raised his arm a little, and she saw an indented scar from a stab-wound, deeper, surely lethal, in the side of his chest, behind the pectoral muscle. She glimpsed, too, in the opening of his tunic a fainter mark along his left collarbone, but that appeared to be the result of a graze, rather than anything life-threatening.

She clapped her hands to her mouth. "Your wounds are _mortal_?"

"_Im_mortal. It happens sometimes. There's another one under my shoulder-blade."

"This is _insane_…" She must be hallucinating. Heat-stroke, she told herself. But no: she had kissed his clay-cold lips...

And yet she was _not_ afraid. Seeing his hurts, she longed to reach out to him, hold him, but she _could not bring herself to do so_… She'd had a few unusual adventures post-divorce, but there _were_ limits. Besides, he clearly disliked being touched and (presumably) reminded that he was dead So she held back.

"When…?" she asked, trying to stay calm.

"1192. 28 April."

"How did it happen?"

"I was returning from my cousin the Bishop's," he said matter-of-factly, as he fastened his tunic again. "I'd hoped to dine with him at his lodgings, but when I got there, he'd already eaten, so I decided to go home. I was joking about it with my squires, when two men stopped us in the street. One of them wanted to show me a letter or petition. As I reached out for it, he struck…" He raised his scarred hand. "I tried to grab one of the knives, but it was too late, and, besides, the other one had jumped up behind… My squires cut down one of the men, and captured the other, but… My lung was pierced."

"Who - _what_ - are you?"

"Some call me the _Marqués_. Some, the Lord of Tyre. But I am King of Jerusalem," he said and, standing, bowed to her. "And I beseech your help, _Na Rosa_."

She gulped. "To be able to rest in peace?"

"_What for?_" He flashed his crooked-toothed smile. "No, I'd just like a hand in setting these damn Spam-filters properly!"

_**To be continued**: Conrad puts his cards on the table…_


	7. A Crossbow Bolt from the Blue

**7: A (Crossbow) Bolt from the Blue...**

"There!" said Rosa, tapping at the laptop. "That's sorted! Now the Spam will go directly into the Junk Mail, and your incoming mail will go into the right folders! Is that all right… _sire_?"

Conrad, sitting beside her (so close that she could feel the chill, yet not so close as to touch), nodded. "Many thanks!"

She tried not to read the addresses, but the temptation was too strong: balian&maria-at-nablus-dot-net, fritz-at-barbarossa-dot-de, callixtusii-at-vaticano-dot-org… "You have an _interesting_ address book, if you don't mind my saying."

"Oh, that's just my family. Who else have we…? Here's Uncle Otto of Freising… Cousin Alfonso in Castille… And that one's… Yes, that's a live person - a doctor. Funny woman, but she's been kind to me over the years."

"But how…?"

"How did I learn about all this?" He laughed. "Well, we have to find ways of occupying ourselves for eight centuries! Your time may have lately discovered 'reality TV' or whatever you call it, but we Dead have been watching all of _you_ for rather longer…"

"And learning computing?"

"It's very popular! Nearly everyone who ever was is on line now. My nephew picked it up in no time: he's a bright little fellow, is Baudouinet. And of course, when we discovered that there were ways for people with physical handicaps to use these things, Baudouin was very excited!"

She shifted uneasily. "You mean, he's still…?"

"When he comes back, yes: he's still disabled. To some extent we're still tethered to our earthly condition when we choose to re-embody: my chest trouble. But he never let his illness stop him before; he certainly doesn't now!"

It was a lot to get her head around. If she were honest, she had come to his room with the intention of going out for a drink, perhaps a meal, and for dessert a wild night of middle-aged passion. Instead, she had found herself emotionally drawn towards a… What exactly _was_ he? Too solid to be a spirit - some kind of corporeal revenant. A 12C King of Jerusalem with an interest in cyberspace. It was too bizarre for words.

"The Boatman's quite a soft touch if you give the dog a few biscuits. Three of everything. I always got on well with my hunting hounds in the old days, so it's not difficult to persuade him into parting with a return ticket. Most of us do at some time, but we try to be inconspicuous. Not draw attention to ourselves. I made that mistake earlier. I tried to see my daughter - my Maria - when she was about five. I died before she was born, you see... I tried to sneak into the palace at Acre, behind a delegation of Pisan merchants, but my successor recognised me."

"And you got into trouble?"

"Not directly. _He_ panicked and fell through a railing across the window, and a dwarf fell after him, landing on his head. He's been whining about it at me ever since, although he'd have been fine if the dwarf hadn't... Not that he was altogether _innocent_ of…" His voice trailed off. "It _was_ a pity about the dwarf, though!"

"_Dwarf_?"

He shrugged. "But it _was_ an accident! There are _other_ people I'd _far_ rather have sent plummeting to their deaths!"

"And your daughter?"

"We're like strangers," he said curtly. "She's nineteen now, of course."

"_Only_ nineteen?"

"Childbirth. Her first."

"I'm sorry…"

"And her daughter likewise. The last heir of my blood - my namesake - was executed. None is living now. If I don't take care of my own interests, who will? Novelists, film-makers… This isn't the first time, you know! 1935 was bad, too..."

"And being on the set of a historical film is the perfect cover?"

"Not perfect. Strangely comedic if I'm in a dark mood!" he said wryly. "Maddening in other ways."

She too smiled awkwardly. (How could she be entirely at ease now?) "Why didn't you get them to hire you as a consultant?"

He rubbed his beard with his scarred hand. "Hmph! They they'd have to _try_ to be honest!"

"- Or is _that_ why you're here?" she asked.

"I'm just playing a game," he answered.

* * *

Late into the night, the writer and the director were adrift in a sea of flow charts and diagrams.

"I reckon it's someone acting for Balian, you know," said the director. "It has to be. Some descendant who got wind of the film, and didn't like what we were doing to his ancestor."

The writer clapped his hands: "Exactly! So who does he pick on to kill in the script? The two people who let Balian down the most!"

Then the director shook his head. "No, no… Too simple! Could it be Sibylla? A champion of hers might want to free her from a useless husband! Or Baldwin?"

"What about Raymond of Tripoli?"

The director nodded. "You think his family would have minded _much_ about him using a subsidiary title?"

"I _think_ we were maybe pushing the envelope with the 'secret conversion to Islam' line. His enemies accused him of treason, and said that after his death he was found to be circumcised. There were allegations about Reynaud Garnier, too, but it wasn't true of him either!"

"And who the hell is Reynaud Garnier?"

"Lord of Sayette - Sidon. The Leper King's stepfather."

The director sighed, and swigged another black coffee. "Where's that bloody genealogy again…?"

* * *

"So what's this game, then?" Rosa asked.

"I think you people call it 'interactive fiction'. It was my nephew's idea. He wrote the programme when he heard that they were making his mother poison him in the film. He's just a child - you can imagine how that distressed him! Baudouin wasn't happy about it, either. But the script was so odd from the first - all the inaccuracies - that collectively, we thought it would be… _amusing_ to add some of our own, just to see how far we could go."

"You mean…?"

"We rewrite parts of the script," the King said simply. "Just think: all the people who have wronged you in life… To be able to make them ridiculous is surely the best revenge. And after eight centuries, it is, indeed, served _very_ cold."

"Guy?"

"His death, yes. And Honfroi's. Balian thought it was a good idea, too, when we asked him!"

"So what are you planning now?"

Conrad was humming to himself as he typed quickly (_Fortz chausa es_, that well-known air by Gaucelm Faidit, composed several years _after_ his death). As he stared intently at the screen, a thin smile of mischief - or malice - spread across his handsome face.

She read aloud, slowly, in English: "Richard leaves Balian, and rides ahead into the forest. As in the earlier scene with Godfrey and his men, we see a local official approach, backed by men at arms. Some have crossbows. They shoot. Richard is hit in the shoulder, close to the neck, and falls."

She stared at him in bewilderment. "You're _killing_ the King of England?"

He laughed. "It's nothing, after all, is it? - Play-acting! - _Maire de Deus_! After what he did!"

* * *

In the morning, at breakfast in the hotel dining room, the writer read over the script once more. He turned pale, and rushed over to the director, pointing in silent horror at the laptop screen.

"What is it? What's happened? Again?"

"I-I think… whoever it is wants us to re-shoot the ending!"

"What do you mean? Let's see!"

He stared at the document on screen then put his head in his hands, and sighed. "Well, I suppose it _is_ only a cameo role! We can easily do a different ending!"

"But - but it's _Richard the Lionheart_!"

"So what? He's not crucial to the plot - just a witty historical movie coda! When did he die in reality?"

"1199. Gas-gangrene from a crossbow quarrel in the shoulder. Siege of Chaluz."

"It's just been brought forward a little, then! What's nine years or so in movie-tweaking? We've done worse!"

"But don't you see? Humphrey, Guy - and now _Richard_! This means he wouldn't be on the Crusade! This is… major sabotage!"

_**To be continued**: We three Kings of Orient?_


End file.
